


Crux

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-11 03:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7874392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two lovers and the stars. It must be Phrack Fucking Friday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crux

**Author's Note:**

> It hardly seems like it's been a month since the inaugural PFF, yet here we are once more!

They are on Box Hill, thirty miles out of London, a blanket spread beneath them and the stars above. There is a picnic basket beside them--naturally--and no other stargazers. She thinks about telescopes and near kisses and romantic overtures, and marvels that they have come this far.

“That’s polaris,” Jack says, as if reading her mind.

“The north star,” she replies. Used for navigation. “I miss the sky back home.”

She does. Mostly she just wants to go back; England makes her restless in a way that Australia never has.

“I don’t.”

His voice is husky, his hand trails down to slip beneath the neckline of her dress.

“No?”

The look he gives her leaves her breathless and wanting in the quiet sort of way he has perfected. There’s a sly look in his eyes and laughter on his silent lips.

“No,” he confirms, his long fingers teasing her nipple. “I have it with me.”

His hand is gone from her breast, and before she can lament its absence he has shifted to the small buttons beneath the arm. A tilt of his head and she sits up, laughing as he removes the simple shift to reveal her bare form.

“You came prepared.”

“I was hopeful.”

His hand rests on her hip and she lies back down, thankful that the blanket is soft. He had shed his overcoat and jacket earlier in the evening, but is still otherwise impeccably dressed. She pulls her eyes away from admiring the picture he makes, turning back to the sky.

“You’re missing the stars,” she says softly, hoping to provoke a reaction; his gaze never falters.

“I’m not,” he says.

Then he lowers his head to the hollow at the base of her throat, kisses it softly.

“There’s Gacrux…”

He moves lower, rolls his tongue across her right nipple.

“...Mimosa…”

The words are vaguely familiar, but she’s too lost in the sensations his mouth is making to place them; the building tension between her legs causes her to shift and mewl. He chuckles softly and moves to her other breast.

“...Delta Crucis…”

His hands are skimming against her torso, dipping lower to tease her entrance but avoiding where she wants him most. Her fingers dig into the fabric of his waistcoat as she bucks.

“Jack,” she threatens, but the warning has no bite to it; they both know she’ll let him have his way tonight.

His lips leave her breast; in the cool summer air the sudden release leaves her gasping. He lovingly nips and soothes the skin of her stomach in turns as he moves down--it feels so torturously slow when she is desperate for the relief of his mouth against her cunt, but is really only a moment.

“...and my personal favourite...” he says, teasing her vulva open and pausing to admire.

She knows what he’s doing now, recognises the constellation he is mapping on her skin. More than that though, she wants him; she wants mouth on her clit, his hands on her aching breasts, his voice beneath her skin until she comes. She’s desperate in her wanting, her hands slipping from his shoulder to tangle in his hair and pull him close.

 _Please_ , she means to beg. _Please, please, please._ To her utter horror, what she says is completely different.

“Southern nipple!”

He guffaws, a deep hearty laugh that shakes his entire body, and glances up at her.

“I believe it’s called Acrux, actually,” he says, and then she’s giggling too.

He rises back over her, still laughing as he attempts to kiss her mouth; they are both bordering on hysterical though, and it’s utterly unsuccessful.

“Southern Cross!” she manages to wheeze. “Southern Cross, that’s the stars.”

“Very good, Miss Fisher. Clearly you were a diligent student.”

His hand has come up to stroke her breast once more, and the hysterics pass; they are both still utterly silly, at the moment and the intimacy, but it shifts, begins to sizzle.

“And the nipple?” he asks.

“A request.”

“Ahh.”

He tweaks them lightly, and she arches to press her body against his; the wool of his waistcoat and silk of his shirt renewing the urgency she feels.

“Keep going, Jack,” she urges, pulsing her hips against him, and he smiles.

"You're impossible."

“You're the one committing astronomical sins," she retorts.

He smirks and presses a quick, playful kiss to her lips; then he grins again and moves down her body.

"Shall I try to find your Southern nipple?" he asks, and she laughs loudly.

"Shut up, Copernicus, and get to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this ENTIRE THING came about becaue I read a smut-writing advice post about what euphemisms to use/avoid, and "Southern nipple" (complete with capital letter) was one of the latter. I was laughing so hard my brain went "Do it. Doooo itttt." My fellow writers tried to stop me, but it was all in vain.


End file.
